


Of Nevermelt and slopes

by Displacer Beast (Kasan_Soulblade)



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Cynical examination of the breeding system, Experimentation, F/M, Other, fledgling human/'mon relationship, will eventually go up to explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Displacer%20Beast
Summary: He'd toured labs, facilities, and perused the expected channels.  Their "journey" for all it was worth was long done, and it was getting to the point of Passe of having a trained battler about..  He had hit that wall where he wasn't quite so young to be reckless and trusting, his Pokemon wasn't too old to be forcible put down because power and senility were both present in equal measure... And so there they'd stood, at a plateau.The expected routes were retire, become a gym leader, or disappear into obscurity and train pointlessly against the same 'mon again and again.There was a name for doing the same thing over and over again...So he took unexpected paths down familiar routes, working a commission at Mount Silver, spying (because it was what Dark types did best, and She was half dark) and sending is notes along the scientifically inclined.  It was a living, a seasonal paycheck to paycheck sort of thing that got more complicated as life went on.He hadn't meant to become a student of Ice Runes, or be gifted Nevermelt Ice by the head of Mount Silver Sneasel/Weavile clan.  But he'd taken one step off the expected route, he hadn't expected the slippery slope that lay beyond it.
Relationships: Manyula | Weavile/Original Pokemon Trainer(s)
Kudos: 1





	Of Nevermelt and slopes

He’d toured the pens. Creatures of various statures and shapes followed his path with the lack daisy regard. Glaze was the uniform slant to their eyes, drooping facial features were common as well as the occasional nodded. At a smaller cage, where the creatures were bound and stacked one atop the other he paused. Wrapped around the lowest bar was a dog tag, clipped a bit lower down was a near lump of laminated papers. He flopped thought a few, stat lay outs, histories, levels, egg moves probability charts.

It was a mathematicians dream in color code.

A fe coice lines flicked though the trainers mind, as his escort sun praises about sanitation and the like.

Previous companion to a champion in the making, lvl 50, everstone enhanced.

Another set of bars further along, another skim, similar words. The levels ranged fifty to sixty, everstones were enhanced to induce placidity, and “champion in the making” was the profession more often than not.

“do any od their old trainers make it to champion?”

They’re ascending stairs, grey, concrete, like the floors before them The only colors been the bound beasts huddled in the back of their cells, the shock of black of his shoes when he glances down, and the white of his companions coat and their hatted head. The lack of color near burns at points, still he blinks it away, smiling whitely. His companion laughs, it’s a mundane thing without cackling and other stereotypes associated with setting and profession, cut short by application of sleeve over mouth, where it devolves into small hiccupping giggles.

“Well it’s a nice way to say “washout trainer.” Isn’t it?” The aide sniggered. A clap and the door before them at the highest rise lights up.

Again it’s white, which brings out the grey of cement except it’s not all cement here.

The chairs are plastic, white and glossy and the smell of cleaning chemicals burns nose and mouth alike. It’s circular, the way a donut is, with a hole in its center that rises via a dome. The dome is glass, save it ripples blue and pink in turn due to the residue of psychics having been applied… And drawing near, the look down s grey,. Of, there’s; pillows and blankets tucked into the outer edged of below, a blanket about one edge, but that spot of color is just a highlight.

The floors more grate than anything, meant to deal with an excess of fluid. Rust he imagines dulls the edges and places a hose can’t reach, his toes wiggle despite their shoed status, and his sharp eyes pick up gashes in the wall that are from claws, punctures near domes edge indicate scaling.

Char bout the edges indicate force and gravity brought whatever it was that wanted out and up down.

“Your brochure featured a lot of grassy fields and what not.”

“It’s a popular fiction. We’ve found it makes the younglings that luck out and catch rare things less shy about dropping their catches down here.”

He hums, noncommittal, he’s been painfully such since this started. Schooling his expression into a tell nothing blank.

He’s one of the lucky ones, he supposes. A shiny sneasel. Save she’s not shiny, and not a Sneasel, not anymore. Simply sporting more feathers, a few blue frilled with yellow that speak mutation or perhaps a grandfather that was an umbreon. She knows reflect, but it’s not per breeding, rather tenacity and thinking outside the box training methods and a lot of thrown snowballs a childhood ago.

He’s careful not to smile at the recollection; he want’s none of his behavior to say yes, that he’ll bring her here, for anything.

He’s already decided on a no well before the tour started, when he realized the fields about the facility were too small, especially when compared to the “clients list” he’s dug up online. So he says nothing, does nothing to damn him, to be played back on the many many cameras he’s seen and likely not seen but are watching him.

His skin itches, about his shoulders and he continues his role, the one of attentive and listening, and when they foist paper after paper in stunning legalese he reads it over line by line.

What he doesn’t sign now he promises to fax later, and what he does sign, well he only signs two parts and agreement be hanged he takes pictures of what he’s signs when and where and locked it in his phone so the aide can see and know overtly how stupid it’d be to make claims they can’t back up.

Not that it’d stop them, really stop them from disappearing him if he had something obscenely rare, like a legend. But he doesn’t, and he’s done and they know that, now.

He consents to the non-disclosure as to what he’s seen, to avoid a mind wipe on his way out, and a silence agreement so long as his rights are upheld, and for the rest. He offers nothing, except a falsehood.

“So, you’ll be calling us and faxing the rest over, soon, right?”

Disappointment makes his guilds tone high pitched he learns.

“I’ll give it all the due consideration it’s due.” He answers, resolving, as he passes up the papers, some with his telephone number as a “contact” to drop his phone into the nearest sewer on his way out. He’ll get a new one, with a different plan, under a new name, and that will be that.

“Bring Sneasel along next time.” The lab aide notes, oblivious to the denial being offered.

“When I can." He demurs, and while he makes an effort not to run once he’s guided out. He can’t help himself being a bit quick on his way to Golden Rod and it’s center and to picking up Weavel on his way out.

She chirps up at him, red eyes alight with curiosity.

“No, and hell no.”

His candor sets the Nurse to hiss at him about language and the like, but they aren’t staying so he doesn’t mind the scolding, it’s more to his back and he’s well on his way towards gone anyways.


End file.
